Two Blades of Grass
by skinnyrita
Summary: shot slash story, TristanDagonet. Over breakfast, Dagonet reveals to Tristan that he expects to die. Rubbish summary but good story I HOPE :-). all reviews welcome.


**Two Blades of Grass.**

_a vignette by skinnyrita_

**This is slash, and if that offends you in any way, although this is extremely light, I would suggest that you read another story, or just skip over the 'homo' part.**

Two blades of grass, drowning in the silver moonlight, bejewelled over with dew, rubbed together in the wind and made a slight humming sound. Tristan was aware of it, and two black, bright eyes shot to the side to look at the small disturbance without having the trouble of moving his head. He was perched on the outskirts of the camp. It had been two days since they had left the fort to go to this likely thankless house behind the wall. A fool's errand. Tristan expected he would survive, but not that they would be welcomed to their destination. He moved his hand, skimming the tips of the wet grass. A jackdaw bolted out of a tree to his left and he smelt the sunrise before he could see it. England was at it's best when it was asleep, he always thought, and made it his business to rise before the day-birds, but in a strange way he had grown to love the country even in the noise of the day. What did freedom mean to him when he couldn't remember it? May as well die here instead.

A waking cough and unintelligible murmur drifted across the camp. Clunk, as the roused man tried to swing his leg over the edge of his bed and came into contact with the hard wintry ground. A muffled curse. Tristan shook his hair out of his eyes and rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his marked cheeks; he knew it was Dagonet who was awake. He picked up his knife where it had lain within easy reach beside him and stowed it in the camouflaged pocked he had worked into the side of his boot. Tristan was practical like that. He took weaponry seriously. A bird in the thicket in the belly of the valley squawked and was joined by another, calling to a third: the dawn chorus began. Tristan deemed his watch done.

"I'll always take over from you if you need to sleep," said Dagonet, pausing to watch Tristan approach. There was always a hunted look about the man, but at the same time an easy knowledge of his own survival abilities, and it was reflected in his gait. "I'm always up at this time."

"I know," said Tristan, quietly, sitting down before the fire and throwing something into it that immediately made it catch and blaze. He knew Dagonet's sleeping pattern like the back of his hand. He could tell the man exactly how many birds would wake up before him, exactly where the sun would be as it began to creep over the horizon, and precisely what the time would be. But he didn't. Dagonet retrieved the flat trays they had used to cook rabbit liver on the night before and laid out pieces of stale bread to toast. Tristan sat and watched him without offering to help. They had a routine going here. Dagonet produced two shallow wooden bowls and a fork each before laying down a few strips of meat, which sizzled on the hot surface as they warmed, already cooked the night before. This was the way they always had their breakfast. They always had precisely one hour and twenty-seven minutes before the next man awoke and roused the rest. Each man's body time ran like clockwork.

"Tristan."

Tristan looked up because Dagonet had spoken out of routine, and this was different. Dagonet passed him a bowl littered sparsely with toast and rabbit, a little of the fat drizzled over to disguise the staleness of the bread. Tristan took it but remained staring at Dagonet, poised. Dagonet met his gaze and motioned for them to take their breakfast away from the makeshift tents.

"I dreamt of my death," said Dagonet, without preamble because he didn't like to beat around the bush. Tristan tensed inside involuntarily and wondered why he had done so. "It was vivid, I remember every detail. It is an omen. I will die soon."

"When?" said Tristan immediately. Far be it from him to deter the course of fate, or anger Gods in any way, he believed immediately what Dagonet had seen.

"After we go to the house behind the wall. I will not tell you how. But I want to be buried in our little cemetery with all the others. You rub my name off the Table when the time comes."

"I will if Arthur does not want to do it himself."

"No, no I want you to do it." Tristan nodded mutely. Their normal routine had taken an unexpected twist, one that he felt might even have stemmed from some divine intervention. "Would you care, if I died?" The demand was sudden and again unexpected. Tristan felt that they were treading in dangerous water, water that he was not ready to drown in. Dagonet had grasped his shoulder, a gesture he had never made before. Tristan knew that if their eyes met he would have some kind of terrible epiphany. But he did anyway.

"I would care." Was his voice trembling? His voice never trembled; it always remained quiet and calm, even after ten pints of mead. Had the air changed? Was the temperature suddenly rising up out of its wintry depths? Unbidden, his eyes wandered across Dagonet's face, taking in the man he had shared almost a lifetime of breakfasts with, always in exactly the same way –until this day.

Their lips met unexpectedly. Tristan had leaned forward to speak again, Dagonet had leaned in to ask who on earth the beautiful man before him would possible care, and it had just happened. Tristan couldn't even remember what he had been about to say now as his right hand gained a life of its own and unbidden pressed its palm flat against the other man's chest. He felt the other heart hammering and realised that soon that heart would be stilled forever. He did not think he could bear that to happen. When he found his bearings he was lying on his back on the hard mossy floor.

"Yes, now I think maybe you would." Dagonet's eyes skittered over his markings. "Will I ever find out what these are for?"

"They're men's lines. Every time I've killed, I have another mark. I've got too many."

Dagonet was still positioned above him, but it felt comfortable, and nice, as they were not in their routine. Tristan allowed himself to relax further into the moss beneath him and felt contentment and desire at the same time. His hand came up to rest on the other man's waist before that kissing thing happened again, but this time he was ready for it and felt sadder than he had ever felt that another life was soon to be extinguished. "All those breakfasts I wasted with you when I could have been doing this," murmured Dagonet, and it was such an ironic thing to say that Tristan smiled his rare smile that was usually reserved for his hawk.

Tristan felt Dagonet's leg move between his and sighed because there could be nothing more perfect in this dawn than this moment, on this day when he knew Dagonet was ready to die. Because Tristan took dying very, very seriously. In the fresh, rising sun, two blades of grass, bejewelled over with dew, rubbed together in the wind and made a slight humming sound.

* * *

That was my first proper slash fic. I know I'm jumping on the Tristan bandwagon but I like him so that's okay. 

Please **review** thank you. love, skinnyrita x


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